


Beneath this Frozen Sky

by Validity_For_Dissonance



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Book-based, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, re-uploaded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-11 15:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19542349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Validity_For_Dissonance/pseuds/Validity_For_Dissonance
Summary: She scarcely knew which was crueler--the gibbet that promised her a blatant death, or the man whose promise rang with the same tune in her ears, albeit its concealment with words of love and freedom.Esmeralda took her chances with the latter.





	Beneath this Frozen Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I published this story a while back and deleted it some time later, but I decided to have it up again.

  
“One word of kindness! Say one word, but one word!”

Her reply was stifled before it exited her mouth when he descended onto his knees and clutched the fabric of her shift with benumbing force. She bit back a whimper of dismay at the feeling of his feverish head against her stomach and the tears that soaked through the thin fabric to reach her skin. Esmeralda craned her neck backward. Her eyes took in the quickly brightening night sky and her feet took retreating steps, edging away from the priest. This only prompted him to clutch her waist instead and bury his face deeper into her.

“Please,” he choked out, pitiful and and small.

Her hands itched to push him away. Oh, how she wished to clasp him by the shoulders and throw him to the ground. But she was no fool. Regardless of how weak he currently was, he could still overpower her easily. Angering him would not work in her favor; not if she wanted to live.

I don’t want to die.

Her tears were resurfacing quickly, gathering in heavy pools alongside her fear and frustration. I don’t want to die… A shuddering, watery breath escaped her. She beheld the gibbet in front of her. It mocked the poor girl with its sturdiness; with its assured ability to steal away her life in mere minutes.

The tears descended.

She opened her eyes that were tightly shut in a moment’s surrender and looked at the man kneeling before her. His cries now came in shuddering breaths and his eyes never stopped producing tears. He had them closed in a cast of inexpressible anguish, but for the most part, he was calm, as if content with simply holding her close without her pushing him away.

How weak he looked. How broken. And to think she was able to reduce a man notorious for his rigid stature to a crumbled, heaving mess, with little more than words; with little more than a touch from her own feeble, delicate hand…

The sounds of unintelligible vehemence and outrage coming from an unknown distance rang in her ears, alarming her. The sun was quickly rising, spreading its cold rays across the arena, chilling the girl instead of warming her.

It took an unspeakable amount of willpower for Esmeralda to raise her trembling hand and to settle it on Claude’s frozen cheek. He startled and pulled away to look at her, ever so careful not to relinquish her tender touch on his face. She looked at the visage of the man she hated. His eyes conveyed an unadulterated mixture of shock, hope, devotion, yearning, desperation, desire… His own shaking hand came up to take hers into its clasp, pressing it closer, wishing for it to meld into his flesh. He closed his eyes; perhaps savoring the moment, perhaps fearing her expression that would contrast the kind gesture with its hatred.

She swallowed and wet her lips to speak. “I cannot promise to love you,” she said, voice trembling. “But I can promise to try.” How bitter the words tasted, how she hated saying them, but… “don’t let them kill me,” she pleaded, fresh tears falling down her fair cheeks. “Don’t let them kill me!”

Claude promptly rose from his position on the ground. His strength returned in earnest with this renewed sense of purpose, but his awareness of the gravity of the situation prevented him from expressing the glee that seized his heart all at once. He grabbed her shoulders and prompted her to look straight into his eyes. “Do you promise?” he said urgently and impatiently.

“I promise!” she sobbed, hugging herself as she doubled over, lamenting her fate and wondering if she had made a mistake.

“Then you must trust me at all costs. Your very life depends upon it!”

She nodded shakily. Claude removed his cloak and covered her with it, drawing the hood to conceal her face. He took her hand into his and began walking in purposeful strides, all the while muttering to himself.

Esmeralda whimpered at the strong grip that bruised her hand but said nothing. She kept her head down, following her captor as he walked her through shadows and alleyways. When he heard her sniffle, he whispered in a voice so sweet it made her sick, “do not worry, my dear girl. I have everything prepared. Indeed I have planned everything. You did not place your life in the hands of a fool.”

If only he were indeed a fool…

Their journey on foot was a collage of confused tableaux that melded into each other and blurred as they reached her filmy eyes. Her senses were deafened. She was as an automaton that performed motions with no cognition. Suddenly, Frollo stopped in his track, bringing her into an abrupt halt. Upon seeing the awaiting carriage, a glint vivified her eyes, which widened as realization sounded a siren in her brain. This was the point of no return. Everything in her protested as she stared at the vehicle that would throw her into an unknown fate where only darkness can be seen.

When Claude opened the door, her instinct was to attempt to run away, but upon feeling the tug on his hand, he pulled her back in exasperation. “Go in, quickly!”

She obliged, shedding a few more tears, and sat on a leather seat, mindful of constraining herself to occupy the smallest space possible, pressed against the edge. Surprisingly—and much to her relief—the priest opted to sit before her and not beside her. He still confined her to his gaze, intense and deep it was, that she scarcely knew where to direct her eyes. Her will compelled her to look away, at the curtained windows or at the floor below, but the pressure and her fear kept forcing her to meet his own.

Esmeralda drew her arms over her torso in a self-consolatory gesture, clutching the robe whose blackness bled onto her fingers.

“Are you cold, still?” he asked, quietly and gently, a serpent that he is.

“No,” she said curtly. God knew what solutions he might have to remedy her perceived cold.

He thinned his lips and nodded solemnly. After a moment, he began, “your notoriety has spread across Paris, I’m sure you know, and your person has inspired varying sentiments, most of which are of ill-will. Most Parisians wish you dead, and will not hesitate to call authorities on you should they recognize you. I, by association, will become an object of dread and scorn once my disappearance is linked to your own.” She resisted the scoff that wished to make an egress. “We shall leave the city, never to return. I have rented a modest cottage in Pérouges, where we will remain until it is safe for us to venture elsewhere. On Sunday, we shall be wed in the local church—”

“Wed?” said the girl in a small, tearful voice.

He furrowed his eyebrows, frowning. “Ours shall not be a state of disgrace.”

“But… that’s not what I promised—not what we agreed upon…”

This put him in a state of thought, his eyes falling to the floor. “Your promise was to attempt to love me.” He looked at her again with the same silent intensity that prickled her skin. “Love never flourishes as it does in the bliss of marriage.”

“But…” she tried again, swallowing her tears. “To marry you is to say that I will certainly come to love you. But if I don’t, you will be breaching the agreement we made.”

Again his mien morphed to that of great sadness, but this did not resonate in her heart in the slightest. “You fear being tied down to me for all eternity, then. Alas, it seems you have already decided not to try at all! Is this not a breach on your part?”

“No!” she assured quickly. “I’m simply saying that… marriage should be considered only if I… come to love you. Not before then.”

“You wish to live in the same quarters without the sanctity of marriage to shield us, then.”

Before she could hold it back, her bitter response came out, “does that matter to you?”

To her surprise, an equally bitter chuckle sounded from the priest. “Indeed,” he said lowly. “What is another sin to a damned soul?”

His words and their dark implications sent a shiver down her spine and she regretted her retort at once. But when she chanced a glance at him, she did not find a spiteful, lascivious man. He was in fact absorbed in deep melancholy, appearing to be lost in thoughts—hostile, cruel thoughts. As if weighed down by their overwhelming power, he slid slightly down his seat and reclined his head backwards in complete exhaustion, his dark hair splaying onto the cushion, but he did not dare close his half-lidded eyes.

“It is the pretense of marriage we shall maintain…” he stated in a fading voice. “But I will uphold you to your promise…” And that was the last coherent thing he spoke before falling into delirious stupor.

Esmeralda stared at him all the while, fearing his state and unsure what to expect. He muttered long strings of words, out of which she could make little, and writhed in pain. He repeated ‘Jehan’ on a ritualistic level, his head twisting this way and that. His hand hovered over his side, but it could not make contact without enticing a pained whimper out of him. Dimly she recalled that this was where he had slashed himself. When he had displayed his ‘empathetic’ self-inflicted lacerations to her, they were by no means well-dressed or well taken care of. Perhaps he was suffering an infection right now and was in the throes of death.

The glee brought on by that thought dismayed her and put her at unease. For all her life, she had been a goodnatured, kind person; never wishing the slightest harm to befall any creature. Why, then, was her spirit now smeared with hate and malice? She frowned and shook her head. It was justified—at least when it concerned the priest.

The girl herself was greatly fatigued; her muscles were sore and her head that throbbed felt too heavy to be sustained by her neck any longer. She curled herself into a ball as she reclined on the uncomfortable seat and fell into a wearisome, nightmare-filled slumber.

The carriage rose and fell along the dented country road well into nightfall. The two fell into and woke from equally agonizing sleep until the vehicle at last came to a halt. The coachman announced their arrival and awaited them to exit. Claude brushed a finger across Esmeralda’s cheek, waking her with a start and enticing a hasty swat to his hand.

He sighed. “We have arrived.”

He exited the carriage and went to speak with the coachman, thanking him for his cooperation and giving him a money purse. Esmeralda, still drowsy, lingered a few moments longer before descending herself. When she came close to falling, he was quick to steady her with both hands, but she promptly pushed him away and staggered backwards.

“Off of me!” she said, as she regained her footing and walked past him, albeit not knowing the direction.

A hand grabbed her by the forearm and forced her to stop. She turned her head in annoyance towards him, but that annoyance quickly dissipated into fear when she saw the icy look on his face. He stepped closer to her and hissed in her ear, “none of that! I will not be disrespected so plainly! If you do not strive to uphold your word, then I, too, shall not. If you are cruel, know that I am capable of twice the cruelty!”

“You hurt me,” she said, pulling her forearm away from him.

He let go at once, his visage assuming alarm that gave way to shamed remorse. “I do not mean to. Come, and let us see our house.”

He extended a hand out expectantly. She took it and felt paralyzed by its cold.

* * *

  
  
A spark flashed as Claude ignited the wick of a beeswax candle, dissipating the darkness and availing the premises for sight. Esmeralda, who still stood stagnant by the doorway, clutching onto the long sleeves of the cloak she donned, stared wide eyed at the priest, whose contours were now given contrast by the flames and shadows. He looked imposing with the prominence of his high cheekbones that spoke of imperiousness, and sinister with the fire stolen by his eyes from the candle. The focus was soon robbed from him when the candle was placed in a heavy lantern. He came to stand beside her, quietly and gracefully that she would not have sensed him had there been no light.

Esmeralda ignored her prickled skin that was made thus by his presence and chose to survey her surroundings. The distinguishing features of the furnishing could not be determined as clearly as they would have been during daylight, but that did not steal from the fact that there was furnishing. Her weary feet screamed at her to drop onto one of those armchairs whose cushions looked so plush and restful, but her curiosity enticed her to explore the room further. She walked to the nearest wall and began her inspection, the source of light following her all the while. Dainty fingers peaked from beneath the large sleeve to touch the ornate engravings on large frames and small shelves that supported clay flower pots. She brushed the surface of the hard wood table with the tips of her fingers, appreciating when they emerged clean and free of dust. The curtains were of a fine texture, and she silently wondered what pattern they adorned.

Claude said not a word, nor did he take to inspecting the decor of the house he had rented with little knowledge regarding its interior design. He instead looked through her eyes; those brilliant emerald eyes that did not need to borrow light from another source to kindle and shine. Her wonder intrigued him, and her innocent surprise warmed him. The mundane waxed divine just by the virtue of being beheld by her.

The girl at last concluded her tour when she reached one of the aforementioned chairs and rested a hesitant, weary hand atop it. She had, of course, seen such furnishing before—even more luxurious and beautiful—but never thought she would claim it as a part of her own dwelling. To rest on surfaces other than solid ground and prickly mats—here, she sat carefully on the cushion and reclined her aching back slowly, savoringly—was something poor bohemians such as herself did not dare contemplate.

Except… she did dare. When she allowed herself to dream of a life with her beloved Phoebus, it was always rich with the lavish and the heavenly. She would be a mistress of her own home, gliding gracefully from room to room in a dance befitting the elegance of her premises, only to be stopped when his strong arms encircled her in their warm embrace as he kissed her with all the love that was true and whole…

Her tears fell. She cried silently, hands clasped in front of her in docile surrender. The priest who stood beside her was mortified when he caught the shimmer on her cheeks. He fell onto his knees, rested the lantern on the ground, and took her face into his hands.

“Oh, why the tears?” he said, wiping them away.

Numb, so much so that she forgot to shun his touch, she uttered, “I miss my Phoebus…”

The gentleness was slapped off from his visage as it became cold and stern yet again. He removed his hands as if scorched and rose quickly to his feet. “Your Phoebus is happily betrothed to another,” he said bitterly. He picked up the lantern and began to walk away, to another room. “Or did you forget?”

Of course she did not. But his cruel reminder enticed her to cry in greater vehemence, like a person in mourning. Did she mourn her lost love, however, or her doomed self?

She raised her feet off the ground and hugged her legs. Despite the comfort the chair had to offer as a seat, she doubted it would be pleasant as a bed, but she did not dare venture off in search of a better place to rest her exhausted self; did not want to contemplate being told she would have to share the same sleeping quarters as that vile man, let alone the same bed.

No, she would rest here where the space was so tight it barely contained her adequately.

She cried until she fell asleep.

* * *

He did not wish to leave her alone. Aggravating and heart-wrenching as she was, he desired to stay in her company; to claim her and enclose her if only by his eyes. But his treacherous wounds pulsated yet again with a pain that was so searing that he scarcely managed to leave her with dignity. He did not want her to see him in that state, knowing quite well that she would mock him and rejoice in his suffering as she did before. How could he bear that? Deep in his mind, he knew he was worthy of scorn and hatred, but a selfish part of him resounded with a ‘so be it!’, refusing to meet his inevitable damnation without a sample of pleasure if he could have it.

Oh, how to make her love him?

He groaned, opening his cassock to bare his skin to the chilled air and inspecting the inflamed cut that was sure to scar. His heart weeped, bemoaning the hideousness of the sight more than the pain itself. Indeed how was she to love him, corrupt on the inside as he was, with scars on his body that seemed to manifest from his soul? How could he ever compare to her Phoebus?

At the thought of the captain, Claude let out an agonized cry. His reflection that sprang up at him as he stared into the water in the washbasin dismayed him greatly. His hollow cheeks were proof of malnutrition, and his darkened eye sockets spoke of many sleepless nights where he did little but dread and pray deliriously; fighting phantoms that tortured him with sinful imageries of the sweetest delights. His hair fell onto his eyes, framing the paleness of his face with its darkness. A black halo! It was the devil that he beheld! Angrily, he smacked the water, dissipating the image into violent ripples, and moved away quickly before the image stabilized again.

Again he failed to tend to his wounds in his bout of self hatred. Again he would let them fester until they either consumed him or surrendered at the wretch’s unyielding dedication to survival.

His hand rose to cover half of his face, as if to still his dizzying thoughts and gain a steady ground, and he trudged slowly to the mattress lying at the center of the bedroom.

“The door,” he mumbled to himself. “Did I lock the door…? I did. I’m sure I did. The windows…? But what are such barriers to a desperate soul?” He fell onto the bed. “Oh, God, please let things go my way.”

Here, he started to weep—the sort of weeping where the throat constricts with painful lumps and the eyes burn with acid—and clutched the covers with a whitened grip, refusing to draw them over his shivering body and ashamed to even invoke God in this dire state of his.

“What has become of me, my Lord?” he lamented. This was a thought that often came to strike him with all the implications it carried, terrifying him to the point of wishing to get down on his knees and pray and pray and pray, bleeding his sins away with his dependable whip and purifying his soul that was sure to collect more soil and dirt just after the ritual was finished. He moaned in unspeakable frustration and clasped his head with both hands, applying pressure increasingly. Then his hands joined together, held by tightly intertwined fingers, and rested with their burden upon his heart.

 _“Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris.”_  
He swallowed, opened his reddened eyes to gaze upon the ceiling, and raised his voice to overcome the loudness of the sinister entities that screamed in his head. _“Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum. Amen.”_

He muttered the prayer in tandem repetitions, until his tongue was too heavy and his mind could no longer conjure the image of hell. His mouth, then, seemed to move on its own accord…

“Don’t leave me; but don’t let her leave me. Don’t leave me, don’t let her leave me, don’t leave me, don’t… leave me…” and soon enough, he surrendered to a tiresome sleep.

* * *

Amidst the overwhelming stillness came a faint ripple; a feminine voice which called for his attention and retrieved him from his unconsciousness. Claude opened his eyes slowly, wary of the blinding sunlight that attacked his ocular nerves all at once. The light gathered around a dark silhouette, surrounding it in an incandescent halo that claimed his breath.

An angel…?

When he received a reply, he realized he did not express his thought silently. “You more commonly equate me with a demon—or a witch.”

His eyelids fell at the sound of her voice and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Esmeralda…” he whispered, bracing his weight on weakened arms and attempting to sit up. “You are still here…”

The girl in question frowned. “I have not been given much of a choice in this matter, priest.”

He ignored the blatant aversion in her tone and chose to fix his gaze upon her. The disorientation had cleared and he now saw her clearly; her arms were crossed over her chest and her face was set in firm resolve—but she donned his cloak, still. He bit back the contended smile and met her on equal lanes.

“Yet you seek my company which inspires you with trepidation.”

The question in his statement registered clearly. Esmeralda straightened her stance and looked at him squarely, never yielding to her desire to cower away from his gaze that mystified her with its plethora of hidden meanings and intensity.

“We must discuss this arrangement, and… establish conditions. Boundaries,” she said.

He blinked once, but said nothing, waiting for her to continue calmly. Despite herself, she fidgeted and found that she was growing anxious. She had a vague idea about how she wanted things to be between them, but could not find the words to enunciate her vision quite so clearly. For one reason or the other, she disliked greatly the notion of making herself seem like a fool in front of him—he, who always spoke so eloquently and plainly; establishing himself on a pedestal with his mere diction.

“First, I require that I be left alone and undisturbed for as long as I please. Should I wish for your company, I shall seek it.” She chanced a glance at him and found him still entrenched in his quietude, unmoving and not reacting. This replaced the fear that she would have felt had he lashed out in incredulousness—as she suspected he would—with wary nervousness.

She proceeded, her fingers toying with the hem of a long sleeve. “Second… I wish that you do not attempt to initiate any sort of… intimacy. I need to feel safe when I am with you.”

He rose carefully from the bed and approached her with deliberate slowness, towering over her when he stood a mere few feet away from her. Esmeralda stiffened but dared herself to maintain her ground, her eyes never leaving his.

“Lastly… there needs to be a period for this trial; until our agreement runs its course and we must assess that which we bargained. Here, I accept your estimate.” She exhaled a long breath silently, relieved at ending her rigid, unrefined display of negotiation prowess.

A peculiar, serene smile graced the archdeacon’s tired visage. It was not a testament of satisfied consensus, but rather it bore a rueful impression, confusing the girl greatly.

“You take me for a fool,” he said quietly and her eyes widened. Claude proceeded to explicate, “Immediately I see how your scheme places us on uneven grounds. I retire from your company, and you, from my sight, where you spend whatever resources you find available to prolong this period of eschewment until a next encounter is made mandatory. The deadline comes and you proclaim you do not love me. I am but forced to release you, as per agreement. Is that what you have envisioned?”

Esmeralda’s breath hitched and she looked defiantly into his eyes. He sighed, looking down pensively.

“I agree that we must come to a coherent agreement,” he said. “But I dislike how you make it a transaction.” His right hand rose to lightly touch her cheek, but it halted before making contact when she grimaced. Vaguely sensing heat radiate from her, his hand remained glued in its hovering position in the air, fingers twitching to feel the softness of her skin. “My great concern was to bring you to safety and secure you from the vicious hand of the executioner and the merciless law of the jury, and still you fear not being safe with me?” The hand fell.

His eyes were gradually darkening and losing focus, as if in a trance. She learned to fear him when he became like this. Esmeralda took retreating steps until her back was against the wall and he followed suit. “Why should I endeavor to bring you harm, when my sole desire is to have you cease to hate me?” She shut her eyes and held her breath. Her hands grabbed the stoned wall behind her as though to brace herself. He looked at her mournfully and said quietly, “How I would fain have you love me, but alas, your heart is sealed against my own…”

Claude’s claims of love, while sincere to his ears, sounded preposterous to the stupefied girl. There was a brief moment when she truly wished to ask how he believed himself; how he could be so deluded, but she did not wish to test waters. Her captor’s temperament was a complete mystery to her. She made it a rule to take note of whatever caused him vexation to avoid collisions with him—unfortunately for her, the one word that brought her the greatest comfort and solace was also the word that made him most agitated and wrathful.

And as the thought of her captain entered her mind and supplied her with a momentary image of his form, resplendent in his armor, her instinct begot her to speak his name; a prayer and a wish; her beacon in the darkness. “Phoebus…”

Esmeralda froze and clamped a hand over her mouth quickly, anticipating the worst. She opened her eyes in tentative curiosity when a reaction was not expressed. The priest still stood before her, but he appeared to be entirely absent. His eyes were glazed over, his breath shallow, and his brow collecting perspiration. He scared her now more than ever. Her hand moved slowly to give the subtlest nudge to his shoulder. “Dom Claude…?”

Claude blinked prolongedly as his face lost all color and he took long, retreating steps until he suddenly collapsed onto the bed, convulsing violently and panting. Esmeralda began to panic despite herself; her head swishing to and fro in search of a person to take charge and remedy the situation. Of course, there was no one but herself. Sucking in a breath, she took decisive steps towards the fallen form and confirmed her suspicion by ripping open the cassock: His wounds were dangerously inflamed.

A small gasp forced its way out of her lips when she was allowed the chance to assess the wounds clearly this time, in the light of day and in her right state of mind. It made her nauseous that he inflicted harm upon himself because of her, and a slight tug of guilt stirred her conscience.

“Why would you do this to yourself?” she found herself whispering. He was beyond cognition in his state of illness, and for the first time, Esmeralda wondered about its extent; wondered about its cause.

She had seen such wounds before and been privy to their effect, back when she resided in her beloved Court of Miracles. Thieving beggars were bound to be assaulted and punished upon capture, and like the archdeacon, they would refrain from getting the help they needed until they could do little but writhe on their stiff mats, unable to resist the helping hand of an agitated, motherly bohemian. Esmeralda often watched in curious interest as the aged lady, Ilona, mixed herbs and prepared salves for her patients. The young girl was even able to convince the woman to teach her the basics of healthcare. Never did she think the first person to benefit from her skills would be the man she hated most.

But his state was critical, and time to contemplate her animosity towards him was not something she had. Esmeralda removed the key that was hung around his neck and located a purse of money on a side table. She snatched it quickly and was about to leave when a hand grabbed her wrist and stopped her in her tracks.

“Don’t…” Claude rasped, his voice barely audible. Struck with a debilitating infirmity, he still sought to keep her from leaving; his gripping fear being the one thing of which he was aware.

It was easy to free her hand from his feeble grasp, and she could have left him then and there without a consoling word, but the level of terror that was steadily crystallizing in his eyes prevented her from doing that.

“I shall be back…” Yet he sought her still. “I promise.”

As she was leaving the room, a pained, frustrated groan rang in her ears.

Her hand that held the key shook violently. Successfully placing it in they keyhole felt surreal, and the click that resounded when the front door was unlocked felt like a miracle. Esmeralda held her breath, exiting her prison into the fresh air of a fine day, where the sun shone brightly through the tentative embrace of clustered clouds. The girl let out a laugh, her heart filling with a tantalizing sort of joy. When had she last felt the caress of a breeze on her skin, or the warmth of the sun?

Free. She was free!

But that joy and the illusion soon dissipated with the memory of a suffering man left alone on what could be his deathbed. She frowned at the discomfort inspired by the thought. She had promised him to return, yes, but did he truly deserve to have the promise kept?

How easy it was to flee—she had money and her captor was indisposed; she could run on her feet until she located a traveling group of her people! They would take her in, and she could start a new life! And then, fate would facilitate her reencounter with her beloved, in a setting far away from priests, prisons, and bigots, where they could marry and live a life dedicated to happiness and love. She almost swooned at this little daydream.

Her chest heaved a long, sorrowful sigh. She was not a cruel person. Be it a monster or a saint, she would not have a creature die because of her.

And so she set out in search of an apothecary and a marketplace with a leaden chest and an angry heart. It took her the better part of the day until she was able to find everything she needed; some ingredients had to be sought from nature, and she had to venture to an unknown forest to retrieve them. But the latter was no trifle, for the girl adored the twining trees and the chirping birds. Had she not been in a hurry, she would have danced to the cadence of the wind and the song of the nightingale.

At last she returned solemnly to the abode whose lovely facade almost concealed the fact that it existed for her incarceration. Claude had lost consciousness shortly after she left and she found him thus; heaving and thrashing.

She placed the back of her hand on his forehead and retrieved it with a hiss at the scolding sensation of his skin. Clinically, lowered the duvet to his waist and bared his chest for inspection. Esmeralda swallowed. The angry red slashes looked greatly painful. She wondered if her ministrations would hurt, but decided that it should not matter.

The girl carefully spread a poultice made of chopped cabbage leaves onto his chest and side before wrapping a cloth around his torso; and although he could not hear, she instructed him not to move too much lest he disturb the wound. Then, she situated her items in the kitchen, where she mixed comfrey with an assortment of remedial oils before combining them with wax and heating the mixture in a metallic vessel. While she waited for the wax to melt, she cooked a nutritious soup for both herself and the priest. She marveled at the unfeeling calm in which she was engulfed, and wondered if this was a sign of a sudden maturity or a hopeless surrender.

She finished making the salve and stored it in a container. Upon looking at the brewing food, her stomach churned loudly. How had she survived so long without food? Esmeralda ate in haste. Her cooking was not necessarily great, but famished as she was, the meal tasted heavenly.

An hour had already passed and the night had descended much too quickly. She lit every candle she could find, savoring the light and borrowing heat from the small flames. Quietly, she trod into Claude’s room, placed the candle holder on the side table along with the salve and the soup, and lifted his upper body with difficulty so that he rested against the bedpost. He sagged, still, but it was much easier to feed him this way. It was a peculiar situation she was in; spooning food bit by bit into the mouth that once seared her by its heat and shot insults down her way.

But that man was a far cry from the broken being that lay at her complete mercy. There came a time when she feared him greatly; his power had seemed impenetrable and absolute in her mind, so much so that she deprived him of the label human. Gradually, she had attached the word monster to his person, and she would shiver at the thought of all the ghastly things he must have done when he was away from prying eyes, but the true terror had only come when his monstrosity was solely fixated on her.

But was he a monster, truly?

Esmeralda leaned on her palm, having set the bowl on the table, and assessed the priest at length. He certainly did not look like a monster. Quivering and pained as he was, with parted lips and disheveled hair, he looked like a child. She frowned at the thought, and the frown only served to deepen when she thought him handsome. She did not feel like he had the right to be so.

She may have not realized it, but much like the time when he convinced himself that she was a demon and refused to acknowledge her humanity, she herself had designed a similar image for him. It was a relieving image, as it prevented her from feeling sympathy for him, or wondering past his actions to reach his mind.

An inquisitive finger emerged from the long sleeve and landed on his cheekbone, tracing it softly. No, this was definitely a human, with skin, blood, and bones.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her eyes glistening with puzzlement.

This is the man who sought to kill your Phoebus.

She yanked back her hand as though his skin was molten. Human or not, he did not deserve her sympathy.

Esmeralda stood from her seat, deciding that she would continue to treat the wounds in the morning to come. As she turned to walk away, she felt a faint touch graze her palm.

“Stay…”

But she did not heed the request and left promptly.

Day gave way to night, and night gave way to day. Claude remained bedridden and ailing, with little strength to move beyond in a compulsory thrash or issue a sound other than incoherent mumbles lost to the atmosphere. Esmeralda tended to him dutifully; cleaning the wounds and redressing them, feeding him, and occasionally, merely speaking to him of nothing in particular; as the sound of her voice seemed to drown his rare panic-induced cries, albeit her tone being always clipped and lacking in warmth.

Surprising as it may be that she should stay and nurture her malevolent captor back to health, it was not something she could control. Helping others was ingrained in her nature; an impulse rather than a deliberate strategy. Perhaps she would come to regret it once the malady had evaded him and he was able to once again exert his power over her, but now, looking down at the sleeping man, tucked to his chin with heavy layers of blankets, she simply did not wish to think about that. Leave the future for the future.

And so the girl had developed a routine. She would wake in the morning—she had been relieved to discover that she did indeed have her own bed in a separate room—and check on the priest to see the progression of his healing. Then, she would journey to the marketplace, pick out what least exhausted the already too scarce money, and return to prepare a modest meal for them both. Carefully applying the salve to the wounds, she would adamantly ignore her mumbled name and the endearments that followed; accompanied by requests to hold him, bend down for a kiss, caress his skin, and so forth.

Having finished her duties, she would retreat into the forest, depositing the heavy cloak to stand shivering in her prisoner’s shift. Dainty feet would feel the softness of the grass tickling her as she moved gracefully in a dance that served as an ode to nature; splendid as it was in its freedom and generous in its endless supply of the sweet aroma of flowers. She twirled and swayed to her heart’s desire, singing in a foreign tongue a bittersweet melody that lamented her lover’s absence and her faraway home.

But nightfall would come, and she would be forced to return to the little cottage to prepare the evening meal. Although her interactions with the priest were mostly uneventful, there were times when the fever would steal away his better judgement; reducing him to paranoid impetuousness. His arms would reach for her in a surprising display of vigor, holding her still as he buried his face in her neck, planting kisses on her unyielding flesh. After overcoming her paralyzing shock, she would push him away and run, vaguely registering the screamed, tearful pleas for her to return.

She would run and run until she was in a place unknown to her traveling feet. Cold alarm kept keep her from proceeding: There were armed men with heavy weaponry surveying the premises with steel-hard gazes, and she could not help but wonder if they knew she was there; if they had come to collect her and return her to the abysmal dungeon where there would be no light, no warmth, and no hope. It was when she saw a soldier wrestling a man of her own to obedience that she decided she could stay there no longer. And so she returned to the priest.

Timidly and carefully, she poked her head from the doorway and found him to be stock-still. Esmeralda sucked in a breath and proceeded, wondering if she would find him dead. He was not. His bloodshot eyes were half opened, but his gaze seemed to be pointed inwards, probing into his soul with the unforgiving scalpels of an apathetic surgeon. Although she stood right beside him and deprived him the light of the waning moon, he still would not look at her. There was a crease that twisted his brow in what she deemed to be shamed remorse.

“Leave me not for my thoughts to overcome me, for they are too cruel…”

Bewildered by his words, her surprise only increased at her revelation: She did not fear him as much as he feared himself.

Perhaps the surprise dulled her wits, or perhaps she was simply too shaken by the encounter she had witnessed between the bohemian and the soldier; but she found herself taking her seat beside the bed, hugging her legs close to her chest and humming a wordless tune in an unspoken, temporary truce.

Morning came and she jolted at once upon regaining consciousness, sore from her uncomfortable position and confused by the empty bed before her. Esmeralda sprang to her feet, alarmed, and found the priest gazing solemnly from the window, his back turned to her.

“I have sifted through many odds in my reveries and contemplated your motives,” he said quietly, not looking at her still, “yet I cannot fathom why you did not leave me to my fate.”

She heard the question in his statement and shared his pondering; she too did not completely understand the incentive behind her actions. “Your blood shall not be on my hands, priest,” she said at last.

“And it would not have been, should you have called for the aid of a listless doctor and took your leave, never to look back at the man you loathed.”

At that, she froze. Indeed she could have sought a doctor instead of playing one, yet she did not.

“My actions are not enticed by any sort of affection,” she said defensively.

Claude’s chest reverberated with a low laugh that was more cynical than amused. “I know.” He turned to her, assessing her form that stiffened with the raised defenses, and his eyes softened if only a little. “It is your soul that is kind beyond your sway. Your soul that knew that even if my body was tended to, I should not prosper without you beside me, and my blood would taint your conscience all the same and plague your dreams for nights to come.”

Esmeralda frowned at the morbidity of his thoughts, feeling suddenly despondent and despairing. “Why are you so bleak?” she questioned. “Why do you call upon allusions of sorrow and death in your attempt at indulgence? You claim to love me, yet I doubt love would make an abode of a heart as ailing…”

There was a sudden flash in his eyes that came as quickly as it went, and Esmeralda could not think of a name for it other than hurt. But before she was allowed to contemplate it, he had straightened his stance and steeled his face, concealing the grimace inspired by the protesting wounds.

Had he been anyone else, she would have been fussing right now; ushering the patient into bed and tucking him securely; smoothing a fallen lock of hair out of his eyes; insuring he had everything he needed and was as comfortable as could be. But alas, he was him.

She sighed. The wounds needed to be redressed all the same. She told him so and instructed him to lie on the bed; but not without warning him against touching her. Curious, he obliged, watching intently as she fetched her homemade salve and fresh bandages.

Esmeralda removed the tainted cloth carefully, brows knitted and lip pursed, and set about cleaning the claw-like gashes and reapplying the salve, dimly noting the irregular rise and fall of the chest on which she operated. She could feel his gaze boring into her head, but refused adamantly to meet it, focusing instead on finishing her work.

At length, he said, “If the heart I possess is a heart incapable of love, then what causes it to shed blood at the torment of its beloved?” Past the rhetorical nature of his query lay genuine confusion. Bit by bit the girl was discovering that the man was odder than she had first conceived.

“Lunacy!” she said, beginning to secure a bandage around his torso.

“Lunacy…” he repeated solemnly. “Lunacy indeed. You have reduced me to madness, and I cannot be retrieved.”

“Love does not blame, nor does it incriminate. It most certainly does not condemn.”

“Here, my girl, you are wrong. For love itself is the worst of condemnations.”

Frustrated, she dropped the cloth and looked at him, meeting his gaze that was ever so ready to claim hers. “You prove my point here exactly! You know not of love, nor of joy! You know not of the beauty of the world; only the hideous, morbid, and miserable! I do not want your love, for it is an incarceration of its own—an incarceration in your world of darkness and despair!”

She wondered if she had gone too far when his eyes assumed the most miserable of miens; a watery sheen clouded them and gave them a depth that invited the onlooker into a bottomless abyss. She looked away, but to her surprise…

“Tell me of your love,” he said so quietly it could have been a whisper. “How is love as you experience it?”

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, her face relaxed into a soft, dreamy expression, and Claude was reminded of the girl who claimed his heart; the heart that cannot love.

“Love…” she began, looking above at nothing materialistic, but at images conjured by a finely sculpted imagination. “Love is bliss. It is basking in endless light; relishing in infinite warmth. Love is safety and serenity; finding beauty where others find nothing, and cultivating that beauty until it wraps you in the most gentle embrace! The light blinds you but suddenly you can see better than you ever have! A revelation; an inspiration; euphoric as nothing else! Being present in the other, even when he is not to be held in your grasp! Love is to be two, but also one…”

Claude had closed his eyes midway in her speech, his expression mournful and yearning. “Oh, how I wish for that… How I wish to be even able to conceive it in my mind. You spurn my love, but I would die for yours. I may dwell in the darkness but how I long for the light…”

Esmeralda stood and faced away, her arms crossed over her chest and her face downturned. “You cannot steal the light without extinguishing the flame…”

“But I do not wish to extinguish the flame,” he implored, desperation shaking his voice. “Come to me of your own free will. Bestow upon me a spark of your fire and I shall ignite and tarnish all the abysmal darkness you hate so much! If only you would…”

“But I will not,” she said decisively.

He stood abruptly from the bed and strode to the window, face twisted severely. “Then the flame will learn to prosper in the leaden cavern where great drops of water shall forever dampen and freeze the air around it!”

The girl shivered miserably at the image and sniffled quietly. He must have taken pity on her, however, for his voice softened and he quelled his agitated disposition.

“My love is bleak,” he conceded, “and it is dark. But it is true.” He could not help continuing, voice laced with disdain, “Can this be said about the love of your Phoebus?”

Esmeralda winced but did not offer a retort, as one of them had to end this dire argument. She refused to admit even to herself that she did not know the answer to his question.

The weight of his shadow soon came to shroud her. She could feel his presence even though she did not see him. It was imposing in its power to overwhelm, but her resolution to remain steadfast prevented her from retreating when he stood too close for comfort.  
Unexpectedly, his hand exerted pressure upon her person, and she raised her arms in a quick reflex to push him away, but he was gone too soon.

“I shall hold on to this,” he said, dangling the key before returning it to its former position around his neck.

She did not know whether to be relieved that she emerged safe or dismayed that she lost the key. This indecision manifested itself on her visage in the form of a pout.

Claude became silent with consideration, and after a while, he said, “How much money remains?” Esmeralda offered him the purse without a word, and he poured the coins onto his palm. “This will not last us a week!” He raked a hand through his hair. Soon, he began to speak rather quietly, and she wondered if it was a habit of his to talk to himself. “The wind has swerved the raft from its chosen course. I had not foreseen an illness indisposing me so that I remained bedridden. I have not secured myself a line of work, still. But no matter; I shall attain that easily. I can waste no more time, however.”

Then he expanded his circle of reflection so that it accommodated her as well; his eyes gaining lucidity as he regarded her. “And she remains in the rough attire of a prisoner and the dull cloak of a monk! My dear, why have you not bought yourself something more befitting of your comfort and taste?”

Midst the changing pace and tone of their exchange, this query surprised her most. Her eyebrows rose and her mouth opened without issuing a word. Eventually, she said quietly, “One of the first lessons you learn as a gypsy is to spend money on what guarantees you life; not its frivolities.”

This seemed to warrant his sympathy. “But you must not worry about what should be awarded at the most basic level. I shall see to that.”

“I need not your charity.”

“It is not charity that I offer; it is what every man must provide for his beloved.”

“I shall provide for myself.”

“And how do you suggest to do that?” The corner of his mouth rose in a disparaging smile. “Dancing? Certainly you realize I cannot allow you to dance. It would be a foolish thing to do, if you gave it some thought. Word spreads quickly in a small town, and astute officers would be quick to link the rings of the chain. Paris, after all, is not very far; and the incident of your miraculous escape is still fresh in the minds of most.”

She hated how small he made her feel. Defiantly, but still unconvincingly, she said, “I can do other things.” He awaited her to supply an example, still retaining that infuriating smile, and shook his head when she failed to do so. She hated him so much.

“I only do what I must to guarantee your safety, Esmeralda,” he said, his disposition becoming serious again.

“You do what you must to secure an iron grip around my neck. To bend me to your will.” Tears of frustration were gathering in her eyes, daring him to negate her words.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, as though to signify how tired he was of arguing, before dropping his hand to look at her fully. Taking her hand, he guided her to sit next to him on bed; and being tired herself, she allowed him, but did not forget to wrest her hand from his once they were seated.

He exhaled a silent sigh. “I have formulated the terms of the agreement which binds you and me. I want you to listen closely, for I shall not repeat my words.” Upon receiving a slow nod from the girl, whose visage now assumed great attentiveness, he proceeded, “Know that the rules I stipulate are not to be negotiated or refused, and they shall remain effectual unit six months have passed—the period of the trial, as you have called it. Every day, by noontide and nighttime, you and I shall share a meal. Discourse is to be maintained, and it should be noted that I will not allow for impudence or snark to sully our time together; this includes your obligation to answer my queries openly and without ridicule.

“During the time I am away—when I leave for work or otherwise—you are not to leave the house. You may do whatever pleases you as long as it is within the confines of these walls. I should not have to warn you against escape, should I? I assure you I have accounted for the various methods you might employ for such an endeavor.”

Already she was looking doleful; her shoulders were slowly slumping and her eyes were downcast. Claude inclined his head slightly to capture her gaze. “Do not look so despairing; you must not remain a prisoner here,” he said, and she looked up cautiously. “Should you prove to be worthy of my trust, I shall escort you to wherever you desire—as long as it is within the borders of this town. But until then, you must find ways to entertain yourself by what exists here.

“You shall be polite and courteous; never hostile or disobedient. In return, I pledge that I shall not touch you against your desire. You must not fear me, for I am intent on securing you from misery and eluding your disdain.”

Esmeralda awaited him to continue, but when he did not, she said, “And… is that all?”

Claude considered. “There are times during which I retire to work on my experiments. I expect not to be disturbed, though I find it unnecessary to state this.” He smiled sardonically for a brief moment before becoming quiet again. “And last… every evening, I shall bestow upon you a kiss as to bid you goodnight.”

She frowned. “You negate your terms while stating them!”

“That is the only exception to the aforementioned rule,” he said steadily. “I shall hear nothing against it. And thus concludes the agreement. Now I shall state what is to become of whoever fails to abide by the rules.”

She became silent again, unwittingly holding her breath.

“Should you,” he started, “or I, breach the settlement in any manner, it becomes instantly void, and immediate measures are to be taken. If it is I who breach it, then I am obligated to release you, and you shall not see or hear of me again.” From the look on his face, she could tell he would never allow that to happen. “If it is you, however, then you become irreversibly chained to me until death takes either one of us, and I shall do with you what I see fit.”

She sucked in a breath and blanched, not wishing to know what ominous thoughts circulated his head.

“Know, however, that that is not what I desire,” he said quietly and paused to assemble his words carefully. “Should the period conclude… and you find that within your heart resides love for me, then I pledge you my fidelity and my unwavering devotion. Never will you want for anything, and as God as my witness, I shall strive to secure your happiness.” The look on her face was expectant; awaiting him to say the last possibility which to her was of great relief and absolute certainty; and to him, a finale much worse than death. “If that is not the case…” he swallowed. It was his turn to cast down his gaze. “Then I shall release you.” He looked at her again. “Is everything quite clear?”

Esmeralda recalled all the terms and considered them; searching for a peculiarity which might subject her to degradation or pain. While she did find it unpleasant that she must hold cordial conversations with him as though they were bound by rapport, and distasteful that she must suffer the feeling of his mouth against hers every night, it could not be denied that things could have been much worse. She could bear the unpleasantness and the distaste for six long months. Although, plans to make him somehow breach the argument were already formulating in her head; but she did not know if she could follow them through.

Eventually, noting that she was taking too long to answer, the girl conceded and took the hand he offered. Instead of giving it a shake, however, he simply maintained a firm grip, looking into her eyes as if to etch a seal onto her vitals. Her eyes returned the attention, though they were wide with foreboding in contrast to the intensity he exuded. She could not help feeling that something final and irrevocable had taken place.

* * *

Esmeralda wandered through the house aimlessly. Soon after stating and securing their pact, Claude had left with the promise that he would only return once he had gathered sustenance and clothing for the two of them, and guaranteed a profession for himself. She hummed at the general term, not imagining he could be anything other than a priest.

Her fingers brushed against whatever encountered them as she glided from room to room, taking in the different textures of objects and busying her senses. Excluding her abysmal containment in the dungeon, she was not accustomed to such quietude; it deafened her ears and beckoned her to engage in whatever impulsive undertaking she could conceive to tarnish the stillness she had grown to fear.

Gently tapping the tips of her fingers against wooden surfaces and skipping in harmonious patters served to amuse her for a while, but soon proved to be tiresome. She passed the time by cooking whatever remained of the vegetables she had collected and wondered if she should store it for when the priest returned.

“Cooking for him was not part of the agreement,” she mused, her lips slightly upturned in childish mischief.

While she ate, she stared at the shadowy patterns formed by curtains that impeded the journey of sunlight into the dim room. Her eager mind began to contrive different shapes, and she read the symbolism with the soul of a distressed romantic, concocting tales that would make even poets like Gringoire pleased. This, too, became tiresome rather quickly. Was this how she would spend the next half year?

“There is enough silence to drive a man to madness!” she said.

In spite of her boredom, she did not wish for priest to return. Dull quietude was better than dangerous intrigue. Or so she convinced herself; heedless of the part that yearned for the thrill of evading authorities on swift, bare feet; the rush of adrenaline reminding her that she was alive, and a dreamy soul holding on to the hope of being held in the abstract security of love—the love of her captain.

“And where are you now, Phoebus?” she murmured, tracing a shadow with her index. “The priest tells me you have sworn your heart to a betrothed, but I don’t believe him. Not in the depths of my soul, where your promise resides true and unsoiled.”

Yet still she longed for a physical reminder of him; a token whose sight would calm her agitated mind and bestow her with the will to endure.

Presently a thought occurred to her—to scribe his name onto a parchment; a remembrance of some sort, even if quite simple. But the girl was illiterate. She had never handled a pen with the intention to use it. Still, a memory was ever fresh in her mind; that of Gringoire tracing Phoebus’s name onto a dusted table upon her request. Could she mimic the swerves and inclinations seen so vividly in her mind’s eye?

She stood, resolute. She would try until she succeeded.

“The priest…” she whispered. If a parchment and a pen were to be found, they would be in his disposal. A sigh escaped her lips, uncomfortable at the prospect of entering his room to take what was not hers, but the thought of her token was much stronger, much sweeter than the discomfort.

And so, tentatively and carefully, she retrieved what she needed from his desk, sparing a moment to ponder the unintelligible words on many splayed scriptures, and made to the library.

Esmeralda contemplated what she had collected. Parchments, a pen, and a bottle of ink. That was what it took to write, was it not? She took the pen in her inexperienced hand and dipped its point into the bottle, wincing when a large, black drop tainted the white of a parchment.

She began to write—or rather, attempt to write—with an agitated fist and a pursed lip, frustration growing in earnest as the inelegant shapes began to manifest. When she was done, she stared at her creation in grave dismay. That did not look at all like the beautiful swerves Gringoire had made when he wrote the name. But the girl refused to concede defeat, and for the next hour, she resumed her attempts.

But all was in vain, as attempting to emulate a model present only in one’s memory was indeed a very difficult task. The letters were foreign to her, on top of it all. She could not read them; she only knew they spelled Phoebus.

A breeze coupled the descent of the sun and she shivered. The candle beside her flickered, perturbed, but was shielded by a hand that sought its warmth.

“Enough with this…” she muttered, disappointed and disheartened, gathering the objects with the intent to return them. Passing by her room, she noted that the door was open. Curious, she peered inside, and found nothing out of the ordinary save for the presence of clothing atop the bed. Her heart skipped a beat despite herself—she was indeed very eager to remove the priest’s cloak and the rough shift.

She deposited the candlestick and the instruments on the side table and picked up the cream-colored shirt, appreciating the softness of cotton against her fingers. The navy-blue skirt and the deep green bodice appealed to her tastes as well, and she dressed quickly in her new clothes, relishing the newfound comfort.

But a sigh soon escaped her lips. The priest had returned. Dismay mixed with a peculiar trace of reluctant gratitude, and she examined the feeling with unease.

She draped the cloak over her forearm and picked up the objects yet again, treading carefully as she made towards his room. Esmeralda pushed against the ajar door and peeked inside, and upon discerning his absence, she hastened into the room and began arranging his belongings as she had found them.

“Where were you?” came a voice from behind. She let out a surprised gasp and turned to meet a set of deep, probing eyes.

“The library,” she said quickly, tightening her hold on the dark cloak so as to quell the tremor in her fingers. “I… brought back your cloak.” Here, she pushed the fabric into his hands.

But to her surprise the man sneered at it and shook his head. “It is of no use. It links to a vocation that is no longer my own.” And the cloak was thrown into a chest where it shall lay disregarded.

Esmeralda followed his movements as he began to retrieve books from a box nearby the bed. She noticed that while his clothing was characteristically black, he did not don the cassock of a cleric, but instead wore a doublet and trousers. “You… are no longer a priest?”

“No. I am thus unfit to serve as one.” The words were bitterly spoken. He gave the impression of struggling to give them egress when what he truly wished was to drown them alongside their implications.

Hesitantly, she said, “What then are you?”

“A physician. I shall tend to those who are sickly.” Here, a book met with the desk rather forcefully. “And concoct remedies and salves when necessary.”

“A physician! How are you a physician?”

He stilled for a moment, and his eyes glazed over. He entered a recollection of the past; a time of such great contrast to his present that it seemed but an imagination. “Before I was ordained a priest,” he began, “I studied whatever my hands fell upon. I probed into the workings of the body, learned the law of the jury, and navigated celestial objects suspended in the heavens above. Darkness!” he hissed, his face severe. “I found nothing but darkness…”

Esmeralda gaped. Forgetting who he was and where they were, she strode to the window and assessed the scenery. “Darkness? How do you see only that?” She gestured to the nightly shroud, so resplendent in her eyes. “Look how beautiful the sky is! It shines with a million lives cradled in its fabric! How is this darkness?”

“Look further,” he countered, turning his head to look at her. “Look further and you will see that it is all finite. Understand the stars, and the knowledge is empty. Much as are the bodies and laws of man. Emptiness and darkness! While I want what is eternal. Priesthood was my calling; I was born to be a priest, but you—!” The words were then suppressed; held back in iron restraints where they shall never grace her hearing, though she saw his fists tightening around a fragile scroll.

The insinuation was evident to the aggrieved girl. “Do you blame me that you are no longer a priest?” A heavy silence hung in the air. It lasted shortly, but it served to increase her incredulity. “Do you still believe that I bewitched you? That I might have schemed for such a miserly fate? Why should I ever wish for this—this torment that seems to end only in death?”

It was a vexing thing that her frustration and anger always gave their token in the form of welling tears, but her eyes were unrelenting as she looked into his.

He regarded her for a while and chuckled ruefully, bitterly. “It is not your doing,” he said. “I know that now. It is fate. Fate has diverted our chosen trajectories—and mere humans that we are, ignorant of the workings of powers far greater than us, we collided, painfully and irreversibly. Now you are chained to me, as I am to you.”

Her shoulders slumped. Despondent, she said, “Are you as miserable in this as I?”

“Yes,” he confessed. “But I am far more mad. I do not wish for anything else. I love you…” And in a morose whisper, he added, “And I hate you in equal measures.”

She made no attempt to argue his claim. Instead, she said quietly, “But you are wrong in what you said, priest.”

He inclined his head in askance, brow furrowed.

“The sky is not darkness; nor is medicine. One harbors life, and the other gives it. How do you seek the eternal—though I know not what you mean—if there is no life within you to begin with?”

He pondered. Whether he agreed with her or not remained obscure, but this was not the cause of his pensiveness. He had debated this matter with scholars much greater in rank and knowledge than she, yet all could not produce a worthy word in response to his allegations.

And so, softly, he only said, “I am no longer a priest.”

“… What do I call you, then? It shall not be by your name; rapport does not bind you and me.”

He let out a diverted exhalation. “This, you shall ponder alone.” He receded, exiting the room. “Come. We shall have supper.”

But she remained in her position, gazing at nothing in particular. “How great the chances are for the learned… But I cannot even write my beloved’s name.”

Soon, she followed, as it could not be denied that she was very hungry, her scarce energy being expended fruitlessly in only an hour’s time. Claude, seated already at the tabled, saw her making towards the kitchen.

“What have you there?” he said.

She halted, confused. “Shall I not prepare the food?”

He raised a brow, clearly amused. “Bountifulness is a blessing; extravagance, however, is a sin.”

This served to confuse her all the more. She neared him, and saw on the table a meal already prepared. “Oh,” she let out sheepishly, sitting in front of him and picking up a knife and a fork. Tearing the meat with the knife, she stopped at once upon hearing him speak in a foreign language, his head downcast in humility and hands clasped together. She copied his bearing, albeit uncertainly.

_“Benedic, domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”_

He raised his eyes to hers expectantly. When she failed to deliver, he instructed, “Say amen.”

“Amen…”

He nodded. “Begin.”

For a while, they ate in silence. Her captor, she learned, was a solemn, quiet man when not in the throes of feverish desperation. She recalled the pious archdeacon, the fearful assassin, and the anguished zealot, and contrasted the different personas with the one she saw now, pondering the complexity centralized in only one being.

She took another bite, noticing the succulent texture of the meat. “And a cook above all…” she muttered wryly to herself.

“Not a cook,” he said. “My knowledge of the culinary arts is superficial at best. I know how ingredients should assemble not because of an expert’s taste, but because it is, at its essence, alchemy.”

“Alchemy?” she tried the syllables of the peculiar word, delighting him in her unintentional interest.

“The science of transmutation,” he supplied, eyes glinting. “Transcendence for the very elements that make up everything, us included. We cannot divorce the things we consume from our being.”

“They become a part of us…” she said in a faraway voice. “It is not so different from our beliefs.”

This seemed to displease him. He frowned and shook his head. “Yours are pagan beliefs. Alchemy is a bearer of truth; a science not to be refuted.”

Esmeralda frowned. “Why do you maintain that we have pagan beliefs when you never consulted with us to begin with?”

“But I am a witness to many of your practices. Is it not the spirits and the stones you invoke in your rituals?”

She shook her head rather animatedly, abandoning unlearned decorum as the discussion neared a matter close to her heart. “You misunderstand, prie—monsieur. We are in concord with the stones and the spirits, yes—the spirit of everything that lived and lives—nature in all its splendor, if you may! The rushing water streams and the far-away stars—the flowers; air; earth; animals—we revere them all. But we do not invoke them or practice witchcraft, as you claim.”

The sincerity in her tone urged him to examine her as she spoke, and at last, he said, “You do believe this…”

This served to frustrate her all the more. “Because it is the truth.”

“I have seen what you have not, it appears,” he said gravely. “But as I delve into a science as furtive as alchemy, I encounter the dark and the illicit. This has led me to learn of practices heinous and appalling committed by people of many races—yours included.”

“Will you then condemn us all based on the actions of a few? May I remind you that your race commits heinous acts all the same!” She refrained from mentioning the very situation they were in and the events that led to it; though it shone vividly in her mind as a prime example.

At length, darkly and distantly, he said, “Humanity itself is a pestilence. Parasitic on its very self.”

The girl let out a long breath and reclined back in bewildered defeat. “What a lonely man you must be… Do you take the world at large as your enemy?”

This retrieved him from his reveries with a snap—he had the appearance of an affronted, if not cornered, man, but she could only guess the contents of his thoughts, as he refused to convey them.

Then he stood, half-finished food abandoned, and gestured for her to do the same.

“Tomorrow brings a long day for me,” he said. “Let us end the night.”

She nodded slowly, unsure if she had angered him. The two walked beside each other, but at a distance. When Esmeralda made to enter her room, he said, “Wait,” and she halted at once, her stance stiff and unmoving.

He neared her until his shadow loomed over her—she discerned the gradually dimming light, though her eyes remained closed in foreboding. Her chest rose and fell irregularly when she felt his breath brushing her skin and she swallowed, praying for this to end quickly.

Claude looked at the girl before him with a weary, craving eye. Her blatant fear perturbed him, lacing his longing for her with regret in a mixture so very familiar. Still it thrilled him to have her so near; she exerted on him a magnetic pull that tantalized his senses and electrified his nerves, drawing him to her almost unconsciously. His blood boiled yet his skin was chilled, and he swallowed.

Esmeralda stopped breathing when when she felt the heat of his own breath fall onto her lips. But, to her surprise, his lips did not claim hers. They settled on her cheek in a lingering kiss, and, taken aback, she snapped her eyes wide open. He withdrew, slowly and then completely, and walked away before she could see his face.

She stood stagnant in her spot for a while, waiting for her heartbeat to cease its erratic tone, and retreated into her chamber, though she hardly slept that night.

**Author's Note:**

> The story was meant to be longer, but I have long since lost interest in it.  
> For some reason I never feel comfortable with having it be published. I'm always tempted to delete it. And the fandom seems too dead to care, so if one day you find it gone, don't be surprised...  
> I will never continue it I'm afraid, since I have grown to greatly dislike the pairing.


End file.
